John's Solo
by thelittlebluepencil
Summary: John cannot free himself from thoughts of Lestrade. He decides to take matters in his own hands.  or so to speak . PWP. John alone


**John's Solo**

* * *

John closed his eyes. Even as late as it was he couldn't sleep, not like that. He couldn't sleep with those thoughts rolling around in his mind.

He hadn't imagined all those looks from Lestrade. He hadn't, he couldn't have; his imagination wasn't that vivid usually.

It was the sultry look of want, the naked desire that he saw on the detective inspector's face that made him imagine Lestrade when he was masturbating, it had nothing to do with his silver hair and his fucking middle aged charm.

One of his hand slid under his t-shirt and brushed his skin lightly, more of a caress, really. He started at his abdomen and slowly moved upwards, towards his chest.

His other hand went to his crotch, stroked himself through the fabric of the pyjama. He was hard at the mere thought of the man, and what did that say about his sexuality! He grabbed hold of himself and rubbed a bit harder, teasing, testing, and playing.

He could not imagine how a man like Lestrade could be giving him such compromising looks. He could imagine Sherlock – because by golly, the man had no shame – and _how_ had he ended up thinking about Sherlock? No, back to the subject at hand, no pun intended. _Lestrade_. Yes, Lestrade, everyone's favourite Met inspector – the why was not hard to imagine – how would he look when he was in private, when he finally took off his suit to relax in front of the telly? That thought brought forward the image of the DI undressing for him, urging on to reach him on the bed. _Oh yes_.

His hand slipped under the waistband, and it was already barely enough. He closed the hand around himself and pulled once, and a sigh escaped his lips.

It had to be the jumper, he thought, because Lestrade always looked flustered when he wore the striped one. Sometimes John caught him staring and Lestrade didn't try very hard to look away.

He imagined the inspector to be standing by the edge of his bed, (surveying his handiwork?) studying the way he touched himself with that grin on his face, the one that said he always had one on you, even if you were bloody Sherlock Holmes.

His hand moved up, stroked the tip, insisted a bit like he imagined Lestrade would do to him. He thought the man would explore his anatomy minutely, insist until he had him begging for his release, until he pleaded and moaned and finally asked him to be fucked. And he knew he would ask, he would beg without shame, without thinking twice.

He sighed, hand moving slowly down his length, gripping himself as he thought Lestrade would do, paying attention to every inch of his skin, touching and caressing, teasing himself. A soft moan escaped his lips and he lifted his hips against his hand.

He wanted more, and yet he didn't want to rush things. He wanted a nice, long, drawn out wank.

He thought about Lestrade, and what he would do to him. He'd tell him to undress so he could see better, no doubt, so John lowered his pyjama bottoms, pushing them off his hips, freeing his erection from the fabric.

He closed his hand around it again and started stroking, stopping after each stroke with his hand closed at the base. He turned his head and put the other hand on his mouth to muffle his own moans; there was no need to give Sherlock more ideas than what he surely had already inferred from him.

He bit slightly on his fingers as he imagined Lestrade encouraging him on, his voice ordering him to continue like that, slowly, and God, maybe he would touch himself at the same time.

He would beg to have those fingers touch him now, if he thought it would serve any purpose at all.

John moved his hand on himself, not so leisurely anymore, following what his need demanded of him. He pumped his cock, once, twice, three times harder, faster, raising his hips to go meet his hand.

His fingers were barely a tool for his imagination, enough to deliver him the release he sought while imagining the silver haired inspector.

He moaned, barely able to hold off his orgasm anymore, now that he pumped harder, erratically, until he felt the tension low in his belly become too much, and he came in his own hand, with a groan barely muffled against his pillow and hand.

He lay there for a minute, regaining his breath. Then he heard a knock on his door.

"I hope you're done, because Lestrade called. We'll leave in five minutes," said Sherlock before walking past his door.

And there went all his hopes of Sherlock leaving him some privacy.


End file.
